


Strangely Satisfying:  Soap

by Aurilia



Series: Strangely Satisfying [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurilia/pseuds/Aurilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft drops by.  Sherlock is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangely Satisfying:  Soap

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really getting frustrated with _IS_ , so here’s another onefer.
> 
>  **Warnings:** This is an A/B/Ω fic. This means, if you’re unaware of the significance, that it is by its very nature SLASH. Though this particular onefer doesn’t have any explicit sex (this being pre-slash), if male/male relationships aren’t your ‘thing’, you ought to find yourself a different fic to read.
> 
>  ** _Additional Warning:_** The process outlined in this chapter is accurate and you can, if you are so inclined, attempt to make your own soap. HOWEVER – making soap can be _very dangerous_. Lye (sodium hydroxide) is a highly caustic chemical that can cause severe burns if mishandled. Remember that scene in _Fight Club_? If anything, that particular scene _underemphasized_ the dangers of lye. If you want to make your own soap, ensure you take adequate safety precautions (goggles, a well-ventilated area or a respirator, protective clothing and gloves, etc.), as I _cannot_ and _will not_ be held responsible for any mishaps.

**Strangely Satisfying:  Soap**

John had gone out.  Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain _where_ – he hadn’t exactly been listening – but some part of him had noted that John had said he’d be back around nine that night.  It was just past noon.

Checking the small plastic tub under his bed revealed it would be a good idea to restock on some basic necessities.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed out.

Two hours later, he was ambling back to the flat, a pair of plastic grocery bags dangling from his left hand, and a paper bag from an expensive little boutique in his right.  The low hum of an idling car made him twitch slightly.  He knew, without even looking, that Mycroft was following him.  Growling under his breath, he stepped up his pace.  _Home is only three blocks away._

The high-pitched whine of an electric window sliding open grated across Sherlock’s nerves.  “Must you be so childish?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock flippantly replied.  _If I duck down the next alley, I could make it back to the flat in two minutes via rooftops.  However, Mycroft could get there in thirty seconds, assuming he misses the forty-five second traffic light at the corner.  Either way, he’d be there waiting for me by the time I returned._

“Get in the car,” Mycroft sighed.

“I am perfectly capable of walking the remaining two and a half blocks home, Mycroft.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Mycroft replied.  “Come along, Sherlock.  We’ve things to discuss.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued walking.  Mycroft’s black Mercedes kept pace with him the entire time, lamentably hitting a streak of luck at the light.  Sherlock amused himself with thoughts of borrowing John’s gun for a little creative revenge against said traffic light until he reached the door of 221B.  He let himself in, but didn’t bother re-locking the door behind him.  _It would only slow Mycroft down by ten seconds or so.  I am certain he has his own key._

Sherlock jogged up the stairs and into the kitchen, where he sat his shopping on the counter, next to the ingredients and implements he’d set out before he’d left.  He managed to unbag the items he’d purchased before Mycroft’s footsteps sounded from the landing.  Sherlock ignored him and set to his task.

Mycroft entered the flat via the kitchen door – Sherlock hadn’t closed it behind him – and leaned against the doorjamb.  “You’ve a week left.”

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled the word while he unrolled a length of plastic sheeting.  “Your point?”

“Your plans…?”

“Are none of your business.”  Sherlock sliced the thick plastic with a pair of scissors.  Setting the roll on a chair, he unfolded the bit of plastic and trimmed away at the sides until he had a large flat funnel-shape.

“I am simply concerned.  You’ve gone through flatmates at a rather astonishing rate.  I must admit to being rather surprised Dr. Watson has lasted five whole weeks in your company.”

Sherlock grabbed a roll of duct tape and carefully pressed a singular length down one of the trimmed edges of the plastic.  “Again – it’s none of your business,” he said.

“Ah, but it is, Sherlock.  You know the terms of your trust as well as I do.”

Rolling the plastic, Sherlock taped the two trimmed edges together, making an actual funnel, though its ‘spout’ was nearly a meter long.  He carried it over to the cooktop and began taping the narrow end over the vent fan set into the wall.  “Yes, I know the terms of my trust.  I further know that, as executor, _you_ can change the conditions of those terms whenever you wish.  What I do _not_ know is why you have not done so.  Surely, you realize the terms – as they currently exist – are completely unreasonable.”

Mycroft waited until the shrieking noise of tape being pulled off the roll ceased before replying.  “Unreasonable?  Not so, little brother.  Father and Mummy simply wished to ensure the stability of the family line –”

“Then why weren’t _you_ subjected to those same conditions?” Sherlock spat at him.  He repressed the urge to throw the duct tape at his brother, but it was a near thing.

“You know why, Sherlock,” Mycroft calmly replied.  “Of the two of us, you are far more likely to produce offspring.  I was given the townhouse and a moderate yearly allowance.  That is _all_.  The country estate, the heirlooms, the stocks, bonds, and other assets – they’re all _yours_.”

“But only if I _breed_ ,” Sherlock sneered, like the word had left a foul flavor on his tongue.  He glared at Mycroft.

“Don’t pretend, Sherlock.  We both know you too well for that to have any effect.”

Sherlock broke his gaze away from his brother and headed for the fridge.  Pulling open the freezer, he checked the jug of milk he’d tucked inside before he’d left.  Shaking it, he thought, _Almost right.  Should be perfect by the time I need it._   He returned it to the freezer, then stomped over to the stove.  He got out a large pot, then poured two liters of olive oil into it.  Using a graduated cylinder, he added 174 milliliters from a third bottle, then capped the remainder and sat it with the bottle of generic cooking oil John kept in the cupboard above the stove.  Next, he added 418 milliliters of coconut oil; the little that remained in the half-liter jar joined the other cooking items in the cupboard with the oil.  460 grams of lard – obtained in exact measure from a butcher that owed him a favor – was methodically sliced into identically-sized cubes and added to the oils in the pot.  He flicked the burner on – one of the lowest settings – and clipped a thermometer into place against the side of the pot.

Mycroft sighed, then changed the subject.  “Still making your own soap, I see.”

“Still stating the obvious,” Sherlock snapped back.

“You do realize that there are professionally-made products out there.”  He said it with a hint of teasing that most casual observers wouldn’t have been able to detect.

Sherlock shrugged.  “I like making my own.”  He grabbed a bucket from beneath the sink and sat it on the counter next to the stove, then grabbed the liter-jug of now slushy milk from the freezer and poured it into the bucket.  Next, he added 398 grams of sodium hydroxide, then stirred the mixture with a long-handled wooden spoon.  When it began to fume, he clipped a second thermometer to the bucket and dropped the wide end of his homemade funnel over the top.  He switched on the vent.

As it rattled to life, Mycroft let out another sigh.  “Sherlock –”

“I'm not…”  Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and turned to face his brother.  He cleared his throat.  “I have my reasons, Mycroft.  I'm not going to go through them with you yet again.”

“You have _excuses_ , little brother,” Mycroft replied, his voice quiet.  “You don’t have _reasons_.”

Sherlock scowled.  “They are _reasons_ ,” he spat.  “Just because I refuse to roll over and allow –”

“Sherlock!  Enough!  They’re _excuses_!  You and I both know you would be a good parent.  Children, though I cannot fathom _why_ , adore you.”

“And that’s reason enough to _breed_?” Sherlock scoffed.  “That _isn’t_ a good enough reason, Mycroft.  And holding the trust over my head?  That’s simply childish, don’t you think?”

“It is what Father and Mummy wished, Sherlock.  I will not go against their wishes.”

“Ever and always,” Sherlock amended.  “You never tire of living up to their expectations.  Always doing exactly what they wished of you.  How I hated it!  ‘Oh, Sherlock’,” he mimicked their late mother’s voice, “‘why can’t you be more like your brother?’  Every time I turned around, she hit me with that.  I'm _not you_ , Mycroft, and I'll _never be you_.”

“Heaven forbid,” Mycroft calmly replied.  “Nobody’s asking you to change who you are, little brother.”

“Yes, you are!  You’re wanting me to give up the Work in favor of a country house full of financial, emotional, and physical burdens!  The _Work_ , Mycroft!”

Mycroft closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten.  Then he leveled a stern glare at Sherlock.  “Criminals were captured before you began intruding, Sherlock, and they will continue to be captured long after your attention moves on.”

Sherlock let out a disbelieving laugh.  “You still think this is a phase, don’t you?”

“Isn’t it?”

 _How can I make him understand?  Can I make him understand?_   Sherlock glanced at the thermometers in the bucket and pot.  Both were rapidly approaching their targets.  “After five years, how can you even _think_ that?”

“Because, Sherlock, this is _you_.  Before you left Cambridge, you changed your course of study every _month_.  Before that, you had a new hobby every few weeks.”

“And the fact that I've stayed with it for five _years_ tells you _nothing_?”

“Only that your fascination with it is overdue to end.”

The thermometers both read ‘38’.  Sherlock switched off the burner under the pot.  Ducking, he grabbed his second bucket from where it rested between the end of the counter and the window.  “It’s not going to change, Mycroft.  The Work is what I'm _meant_ to be doing – not breeding sprogs.”  He poured the oils into the empty bucket.  Switching off the vent, he carefully poured the lye-and-milk mixture into the oils, stirring with the wooden spoon.  “I don’t care about the trust – oh, I'll admit the additional funds would be helpful, but I've lived this long without.”  He carried the bucket of not-quite-soap to the table and sat it on the floor while seating himself on a chair.  Not once did he pause in stirring the mixture with the spoon.

“If it were indeed what you were ‘meant’ to do, Sherlock, then tell me this – why keep on with the experiments?”

Sherlock glanced at his brother.  Mycroft had a smug expression on his face.  “Most of the experiments are for two purposes, Mycroft:  One, to acquire knowledge that may become vital in the Work.  Two, to free me from this cursed biology so that I may pursue the Work freely.”

“And the remainder?”

Sherlock returned his attention to his soap-making.  “Curiosity,” he said.

“‘Curiosity’,” Mycroft repeated, “or boredom?”  Sherlock winced a little, and that was all Mycroft needed.  He stood.  “I wish I could make it easier for you,” he said.  “But I can’t.”

Mycroft left, and Sherlock took his frustration out on his soon-to-be-soap.  _Why can nobody understand that I don’t want children?  Everyone who finds out that I'm a ‘breeder’,_ he purposefully used a derogatory slang term for ‘omega’, _acts like it’s a personal affront when I tell them I don’t wish to breed.  What business is it of theirs?  Children…  Gah!  For the first year of life, they’re always oozing something from one end or the other.  Then they learn to speak and either cannot or will not shut up when silence is called for.  And they’re always sticky.  Why are children always sticky?_   He shook his head. _Eventually, they grow to be teenagers and hate you outright, even while begging for pocket money or this or that.  And then, once they’ve finally moved out, they breed and wind up bringing their own sprogs around for free babysitting.  Then, later, when they’ve decided they’ve waited long enough to inherit, they chuck you into a living graveyard and forget about you.  Why would anyone willingly submit themselves to that?_

He checked the consistency of the mixture.  It wasn’t quite ready for the final ingredients.  He continued stirring.  _Besides, it’s not like you could really fit the Work around a child.  ‘Oh, excuse me, Lestrade – would you mind holding a squalling brat while I look at the corpse?  Ta very much!’_   He snorted in amusement at the mental image.  _No, not quite accurate.  Omegas don’t have babies – they_ litter _, so it would be more along the lines of ‘Oh, Donovan – mind the litter while I chase this serial killer.’_   He rolled his eyes at himself.  _No, no – two reasons why that’s inaccurate:  One, if I ever did breed, Donovan wouldn’t be allowed within fifty meters of the offspring.  Two, I highly doubt any alpha would allow me to continue with the Work.  Yet another reason why breeding is inadvisable.  Without the Work, I'm relatively certain I'd wind up experimenting on the offspring in lieu of anything worthwhile to do.  Experimenting on children is generally frowned-upon._

The soap finally traced, so Sherlock quickly stirred in a half-kilo of powdered aluminum chlorohydrate (‘liberated’ from the same lab where he obtained his sodium hydroxide) and the 60-milliliter bottle of blended vitamin A and E oils he picked up from the boutique that morning.  While mixing, he continued his thoughts.  _It is really too bad that surgical sterilization is both difficult to obtain and carries so many risks.  If it weren’t for that fifteen-percent chance of SIP, I would find a way…  But fifteen percent is far too high a risk for Sterility Induced Psychosis.  Though I can’t help but be curious what I would be like, should I suffer from it.  Would I still have my mind?  Or would logic abandon me?_

Retrieving his molds from under his bed, Sherlock idly mused on the possibilities.  By the time he’d poured the finished soap into the molds, his mind had wound back around to other topics, most notably on how much he wished Mycroft would learn to mind his own business.

While his consciousness was otherwise engaged, a still, small voice at the back of his mind, drowned out by the veritable shouting from other areas, had its own thoughts.  _Perhaps I shouldn’t have added the aluminum chlorohydrate.  It would be interesting to see John’s reaction to my scent.  His is strangely homey – tea and lanolin and woodsmoke – but with that undertone of cordite and blood and adrenaline.  Hell, it’s still homey.  My kind of home.  Wonder if he’ll bring back more ginger biscuits?  Should I clean the living room and send him a photo?  Would that induce him to bring ginger biscuits?  Or should I see if I can infect myself?  I know where_ _Stamford_ _stores his samples…  Food poisoning isn’t that big of a deal, but it would make John want to look after me again, like a few weeks ago.  He is cuddly.  And warm._

Much like before, these tiny, quiet thoughts couldn’t make themselves heard through the general clamor of other thoughts vying for Sherlock’s attention.

But they would eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> I reiterate, if you choose to follow the recipe for soap-making outlined in this story, you and you alone are responsible for your own safety. Please be sensible.
> 
> Please let me know what y'all think of this particular AU - and if you have any scenes you want to see, I'm still taking requests!


End file.
